


After Image

by Rabid1st



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 17:59:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10927071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rabid1st/pseuds/Rabid1st
Summary: I had this idea that Rose Tyler starts a diary on the Domestication of Time Lords. This was originally going to be fics based on a series of A-Z prompt responses, but it never developed from this one ficlet. So...take it as a one-shot.





	After Image

A IS FOR...AFTER IMAGE  
by Rabid1st  
Rated T for Teen and brought to you by amythest_n_ice

 

ENTRY ONE  
27/12/2005...Earth...My Mum's Flat

What a week!! Seriously, this week has been beyond mad. Daleks and the end of the world. The Game Station and Emergency Program One and whatever happened between me and the TARDIS. Somehow my brain won't even think about that. I've never been so afraid, so happy, so confused.

This time last week we were on the planet Hok. A bit of a holiday. No monsters. No disappearing people. Just picnics and fishing and TARDIS tinkering. It was the middle of a mild summer and the Doctor was a different man. God, I watched him burn. I can't even begin to write about it, not yet. And Jack..? Stuck in the middle of endless prairie, Jack and I amused ourselves by chasing each other about until, bored with rural living, we hitched a ride into town for a drink. One dare led to another and then to a pack of cards and we introduced a game called Three Dog Whistle to the natives in this Hokkian Pub. I was down ten million when the Doctor burst in all bright smiles, but with those narrowed, no back chat eyes of his blazing. He slapped a handful of coins onto the table and pulled us both out of there, just as the cards were turning my way. 

Jack. I keep expecting him to swan through the door, singing or naked or naked and singing. He did like to share his talents with the world. It's a shame Mum never met him. They would have been a laugh together. He'd be miles better for her than that Howard from the market. Oh, I've just given myself a shudder thinking of Jack having it on with my Mum. Not that either of them would turn a hair. But how weird would that be...considering Jack and I were once...okay, no, we weren't...not actually...but I thought about it and so did he. 

Anyway...so...I've decided to start a journal for three very good reasons. First, because Aunt Meg sent me a stationery set for Christmas. It came with a lovely pen and this journal. I like the Celtic patterns on the cover and the magnet closure and it's small enough I can carry it anywhere. I think Aunt Meg misses me. Maybe she hopes I'll write. There were envelopes in the set, too, and a pen holder. I reckon I'll use it for my makeup brushes. We used to be close, Meg and me, when she lived in London and I lived in the twentieth century. But we lost touch once she moved to Wales. Mum said, knowing Meg, she didn't expect me to write. She just grabbed the first thing that came to hand in the half-price bin. Mum could be right. The wrapper did have a big, red, discount sticker on it. But I can't blame Meggie for bargain hunting when I haven't sent her a gift in years. 

And a present is a gift horse you should not check for rickets, as the new Doctor put it. Imagine the old him saying that! No, I can't even imagine it.

Where was I? Reasons. Journals. Second. Oh, that's brilliant, I'm starting to sound like him. The new him not the old him. The old him didn't blather or chatter. He could sulk silently for hours though, chin to his chest. Which does bring me to the second reason I wanted to keep a journal. It's because the Doctor used to keep one. Well, he kept a logbook, a record of our journeys. Or that's what he pretended. _Keeping a log, yeah!_ I know better. Some nights, even after a nothing-much-happened sort of day, he'd sit with his back against a post, scribbling away for hours. I reckon he wrote poetry, that one, bleak and profound. This one, I just don't know...

I don't know him. There's the problem. Does he write poetry? Music? Pop tunes or operas? Jingles? All that cheer in one place. He's a goer, alright. I don't know what he'll do next. And we're off into space again soon. I think my mum is right. I must be some sort of nutter. Or just so desperate to escape this nothing life that I don't care about anything but running. I guess that makes us the same, the Doctor and me. I know my mum worries. Me, out there, all alone in time and space with...well...an alien. And I can't explain why I trust him, even to myself. I could fill this whole journal with the questions I have about him. 

Who knew he could change like that? It's creepy, yeah. But, somehow I don't care. So much has changed since last week. Not just him, but me. I've changed and I think he knows it.

Since the regeneration—there's my new word of the week—I catch him staring at me with this odd light in his eyes. And he touches me. Not to steer me about like he used to do either. This is intimate. He's like a man now. It's all playful shoulder bumps and happy elbow nudges and sliding fingers at my waist as he slips around me. Maybe it's just awkwardness, him getting used to his new body. But he seems so graceful, slick and agile. It is hard to believe he's constantly running into me, or over me, by accident. Of course, he can barely contain his bouncy energy. It's hard to imagine him sitting beside the TARDIS meditation pool, writing out a grocery list, let alone recording his innermost thoughts as poetry. So, I'm going to start keeping track of mine...my innermost thoughts I mean. Not poetry. Not yet. I just want to write about our nothing-much-happened sort of days. I can hardly wait to see the look on his ferret-y new face when I plop down in our cozy chair and break out my very own journal. Ha! I bet his eyebrows wiggle. I only wish I could write in a code. I would love to make my writing as unintelligible to him as his swirling symbols are to me. 

Because this journal is for me and me alone. Which brings me to the final, most important reason for writing things down. I don't want to forget. I want to remember him as he is now. Capture what I'm feeling at this very moment, losing a friend and yet not losing him. And I want to have a clear understanding of the Doctor. As he was. As he is. As he will be. I want to record our journey, the places we visit and what it all means to both of us. I didn't realize before how precious even a tiny sliver of memory can be, until I lost those last few minutes with my old Doctor. He told me he sang a song and the Daleks ran away. A lie, I know. But will I ever learn the truth. What happened out there to make him change? 

The truly frustrating thing is that even if he tells me, it won't be the same as having my own memories. Did I try to help him? Did I know he was hurt before I fainted or whatever?

I only have four pictures of him, the old him, I mean. And one of those I copied from the Internet. I wish I'd taken more pictures or video. I wish I'd studied him closely, paid attention to the little things--the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the way he said certain words, how warm his hands felt holding mine. I've bundled up his old jacket and tucked it in a bag to take with us. 

Look, I'm not building a shrine. I'm not in mourning. I know in my heart that would be silly. The Doctor is still alive. He's the same man inside, I can feel it, like a flutter at my center when he smiles at me. I can hear it when he says my name. He's the same Doctor that saved me so many times. The very same man who seized Jack by his ear and threatened to teach him why the Dog Whistled if he ever took me to a Hokkian pub again. Apparently, they settle debts there with a shag. I'm sure Jack would have taken on my I.O.U.s.

I will miss being scolded and listening to him go on about how brilliant he is. Or come to think on it, maybe he'll still go on about that. This one's just as cocky, maybe even more-so. But I already miss the smell of leather and lemons when he hugs me. It made me feel safe. I miss keeping pace with his steady stride. The bowed legs and the broad chest and his oh, so soft jumpers. The face I fell in lo... cared about knew and trusted is only an after image burned into my mind's eye. Already, it seems to be fading as I blink this new Doctor face into focus. My alien friend from “the North” has become a rail-thin, whip-quick and razor-sharp sex god. 

Okay, that's a bit much, I admit, and mostly Mickey's fault. He keeps asking me about my feelings and the future. He wants to know if or when I'm coming back to stay and if the Doctor and I have ever...yeah...so, I don't mean sex god. Fit. I just mean fit. And a little bit foxy. 

And Doctor if you are reading this then you should know I will never ever forgive you. 

Not that you weren't fit before. The other Doctor was, I mean. He was rock hard under that jumper, but he never really made me think about...fitness. 

Or things like mistletoe on the doorframe above his head. Thanks, again, Mickey! I don't know what's got into you over the last year. But I can guess what you've got into. I can see where your mind is. Hello, Trisha Delaney! Not that I care about Trisha, because I don't. Please yourself, I say. But it's never been like that with me and the Doctor. We have something...special. I think. It's a bit hard to explain...but me and him...we take care of each other. I wanted to be with him even knowing he was nearly a thousand years old. I just wanted to travel by his side, to learn from him. I never noticed things like mistletoe over his head. This one's trousers are too tight. I should mention that to him, but I'm not sure how to bring it up with out letting on I've noticed what he's got under his trousers. They sort of cling in all the right places when he's up a ladder fiddling with the inner workings of the TARDIS. 

He says she's almost ready to fly us away again. He wants me to go. I think maybe, sometimes, that he wants me to mention the trousers or the touching. It's like he's been meaning to tell me something but can't manage to get the words out, yet. I don't know. Everything has changed. It's like he's suddenly...domesticated. Like the other him was an alley cat and this one's come indoors. He's eating my Mum's cooking, every night at the table like a normal bloke. He calls Mickey by his proper name and even stayed late tonight to watch telly. Right at this exact moment, he's sleeping on the couch. He never used to sleep. He says it will help his hand heal. 

He's lost a hand. I've lost an entire him. But it will never happen again. Even if he changes a hundred more times, I'll never lose him again. I'm going to make sure I keep him safe from now on. 

And I'm going to write down every little thing I like and hate and adore about our travels and this Doctor--his one wandering eye and his sun-bright smile and the way his new, new hand feels in mine. His fingers are longer, thinner and somehow they seem more...determined, like he's never letting go, like he's afraid of losing me, too. 

This time I'll take more pictures. 

I just snapped one of him sleeping. He murmured something, reacting to the bright flash with a tiny flinch and squint. I didn't catch what he said, only my name in the middle of it. I don't think he's going to wake up until morning. I should be getting to bed, too. Or maybe I'll sleep here. There is just enough room for me to curl up next to him with my head on his shoulder. He has comfy shoulders for someone so bony. I gave them a test run earlier when were were watching Strictly Come Dancing. Comfy shoulders, hairy arms and a very handsome face for all that it is sort of lopsided. To think he used to worry about his ears. Met your new eyebrows? 

When Big Ears, as Jack often called him, asked me to go to the stars he asked casually, off-hand and cool. This new him implored, shyly, “I'd love you to come.” Somehow, he made it seem like a date. Like maybe he was asking me to go even further than the end of the world with him. He told my mum everything was new to him. He told her he'd never seen the universe with his new brown eyes. Funny thing is the universe seems different to me, too. Maybe because I've changed inside as much as the Doctor has changed outside. His too long lashes shiver as he dreams. I wonder if he has an after image of me glowing in his mind--a slowly fading recollection of the Rose Tyler I was last week—Earth girl seen through different eyes. Eyes as blue as a stormy sea. Gone now. 

 

THE END


End file.
